


Coming, Not Drowning

by piecesofalice



Category: Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piecesofalice/pseuds/piecesofalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he wished he was an addict.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming, Not Drowning

\-----

Sometimes he wished he was an addict.

  
Living selfishly, constantly knowing what you want and being so high when you finally recieved it. Plain and simple, if it wasn't so difficult and ugly for everyone else to watch.

  
He couldn't put her through him being an addict. Not her, or his mother or even his brother; because he was above that and he was above spilting himself in half for fear of his family's reproach.

  
But not her. He was so apart from her now, she could only be seen from a distance in his mind's eye.

  
\---

  
Wiznesky's gun shot resonated through the car as she kept her eyes on the road in case they'd tear up looking at him.

  
She knew he'd given up smoking, from the weight gain and the way he chewed the side of his mouth constantly. The small things; never smelling the odour of week-old cigarettes when she dropped him off at his apartment, not watching him disappear into the elevator for a lunch time puff - they all gave him away without even a word.

  
Part of her claimed this small victory, because for once, he was an open book.

  
And she had to take it when she could get it, no matter how petty or insignifigant it was.

  
\----

  
"Eames."

  
"Hmmm?"

  
"The light's green."

  
"Oh."

  
And on they drove, in silence.

  
Where they would stop, no-one knows.

  
\---

  
He saw the way her hands shook as she held her weapon at Wiznesky. He saw the way her hands trembled as she took the coffee he offered, or when she picked up a fax.

  
His mother's hands shook, now. Ravaged by cancer, eating away at the metal inside of her, leaving her an empty carcass of a lost life with only a tired, nagging mouth left.

  
"I don't like hospitals."

  
Out of the blue, but she knew what it meant. She pulled the car into his drive way and turned to him.

  
"I know."

  
\---

  
She perched on the edge of his couch like if she leant back into it, it would eat her alive.

  
She tricked herself into thinking he was going to be okay, because it was so much easier than dealing with his mindset and her own. Of having to watch him watch her; treating her with kid gloves while pulling his own hair out because he so obviously couldn't deal with her, and his mother and himself.

  
Standing, walking into the kitchen where he's busy making tea, she's ready for mindless small talk and useless banter and the constant push away. She is, in fact, ready for anything but _him_, his hands palm down on the counter and his face streaked with tears, the sobs wracking and rolling and leaving her speechless.

  
"Bobby..." He reached her before she reached him.

  
"I'm so, sorry."

  
Neither has to say why or what-for, because they can read each other's minds. It's their _thing_, and it's back, and she couldn't have said actual words anyway; through the silk of his tie and the white of his chest absorbing her emotions and words, she just breathes for a second and lets her feet dangle off the floor.

  
Free, for a moment.

  
\---

  
He's in pain, but he's a man and this is how men deal.

  
In any case, that's how he'll justify it to himself when the inevitable doubt and guilt sinks in tomorrow, when he has to face her away from his kitchen and in the harsh light of MCS.

  
He initiated it, no doubt; pressing himself against her and she'd responded - cloudy from emotion or shock or, like him, the knowledge that this could help them forget - and finally, all at once, he could taste her.

  
Tiny hands, grabbing at his clothes and he placed her on the counter like a meal he was about to devour, snaking hands up around her now-bare back and using his tongue for the rest of the journey.

  
The circumstances were irrelevant in comparison to the sensations of _here and now_, the beauty of forgetfulness in the arms of the woman he cared for more than any other, overwhelming. This wasn't about shoving his dick in some broad to forget (about Ma, about his brother/father/Wisnesky/the fact he almost lost her); this was it. This was the end of so many wet dreams he'd been so embarrassed about, because you _don't think about your partner like that!_; the scenarios from his mind so different to the actual event, it was like the last six years hadn't existed.

  
There was no "GorenandEames" here - he was Bobby, she was Alex and they could have met in a bar in the middle of the night in 1998, instead of a squad room surrounded by butchy cops; for once, it didn't matter.

  
She groaned against his hair, and he knew she was crying. Not for her, or him, but for his mother and Wiznesky's family who had nothing like they had at this very second. For the bitter realities of tomorrow and later, that would arrive, pounding down the door, once they'd come and were panting, sweating in each other's arms.

  
Tomorrow, they'll deal with you-and-me, continue facing their demons that won't just disappear because they finally tripped over the thin blue line. But at least, tomorrow, each other will have a better understanding and the knowledge that for once, they don't have to go about it alone.

  
And that is freedom, if only for a moment.

  
\---

_Fin._

\---


End file.
